


The General and the Grand Admiral

by morwen_of_gondor



Series: The General and the Grand Admiral [1]
Category: Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn, Star Wars: Rebels, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Crack Crossover, Crack Treated Seriously, Deductions, Everyone Speaks The Same Language Because I Said So, Force Artefacts, Gen, Maedhros and Thrawn Bond Over The Idiots They Live With, POV Alternating, Post-Episode: s04e10 Jedi Night, Post-Luthien Kidnapping, Pre-Luthien-Beats-Morgoth-With-A-Stick, Slightly Out Of Character, Sort Of, That's Not How The Force Works, What Have I Done, Why Did I Write This?, because I want it to, because Maedhros and Thrawn are pushy, but it does for this story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23484274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwen_of_gondor/pseuds/morwen_of_gondor
Summary: The two best fictional strategists I've ever read about bond over wine, art, and the idiots they have to deal with.
Relationships: Maedhros | Maitimo & Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo
Series: The General and the Grand Admiral [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1748641
Comments: 83
Kudos: 107





	1. A Chiss and a Noldo Walk Into a Bar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Joseph_B_Bergstrom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joseph_B_Bergstrom/gifts).



> I have no idea what this is. It just crawled out of my brain and onto the page. Do not expect it to make sense. Please. It won’t. It happened because I was reading Joseph_B_Bergstrom's excellent _Crossroads Trilogy_ , which features Thrawn as a main character, while trying to persuade myself to write more of _The War of the Ring_ , which features Maedhros as one of the main players, and some stray thought said, _Maedhros and Thrawn would get along really well, they're both brilliant strategists who are consistently handicapped by the idiots in their lives, you should write something about them!_ Said thought then refused to go away, and so here this is.
> 
> Enjoy the nonsense!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros of Himring, consummate strategist and exasperated brother of idiots, meet Grand Admiral Mitth'raw'nuruodo, also a consummate strategist in charge of a large cohort of idiots.

Maedhros stared at his empty wineglass, then at the letter he had put next to it, then at the ceiling. He wished for a moment that he was irresponsible enough to get drunk enough to cope with the contents of the letter, but, considering the headache that would doubtless leave him with, perhaps things were better as they were.

In lieu of asking for more wine, he declared to the world at large, "I work with _idiots_."

"Tell me about it," said a deep, cultured, utterly exasperated voice from his left side. Maedhros turned away from the ceiling, which was, after all, rather uninteresting, to meet a pair of glowing red eyes. If he had seen the eyes before he had heard the voice, he would probably have tried to stab their owner on the general principle that anything with eyes that colour was either Thauron in disguise or something equally unpleasant. As it was, he suspended judgement (and stabbing) long enough to decide that this was highly unlikely to be one of Thauron’s forms: the rogue Maia was not fond either of the colour blue, which Maedhros presumed reminded him of Varda and Ulmo, or of pristine white clothes, which looked far too much like something Manwë would wear. Not to mention that nobody he had ever seen in Middle-Earth or Valinor wore clothes like that, and, while Thauron was many things, a sartorial innovator was emphatically not one of them.

In the time that it took him to notice all this, he also noticed that the stranger appeared to be unarmed except for what might be a very oddly shaped dagger at his right side, and had given no signs of aggression. Neither did he feel like one of Morgoth’s servants, whom Maedhros was extremely skilled at detecting.

So, instead of stabbing the blue stranger in the odd white tunic, Maedhros gestured to the seat across from him.

Mitth'raw'nuruodo was not entirely certain what planet this latest bit of Jedi foolery (and it had to be connected to the Jedi somehow; no-one else ever managed such remarkable feats of chaos) had landed him on. He could see neither the peculiar device that had pulled him into a sort of swirling black void, nor anything else that looked even remotely useful.

So, on principle, he went to look for the nearest building that looked more or less like a public house. A little generosity to the denizens of a pub would earn him at least one informative friend among the locals, and what he needed most at the moment was information.

Unfortunately for him, the pub he found first was nearly deserted except for a _very_ tall, red-headed part-Human with a scarred face and a missing hand, who was sitting in the corner with an empty wineglass in front of him, staring contemplatively at the ceiling with rather glazed eyes. Mitth’raw’nuruodo was about to put him down as drunk and probably useless and go in search of a place with more patrons when the person said in a voice which, while it had a strange, lilting accent, bore no trace of slurring, "I work with _idiots_." 

Mitth'raw'nuruodo looked more closely at the strange individual, and a closer inspection led to a radically revised character estimate. Between the official-looking letter, the wineglass, the impressive set of scars, and the sword (which was either ceremonial, or an indication that this was even more of a backwater than he had previously thought), Mitth'raw'nuruodo guessed that he was looking at a local leader, probably either military or ex-military, and hopefully fairly intelligent. If he was slightly intoxicated, that would only make it easier to get information out of him. Besides that, having recently found himself surrounded by a cadre of Imperial officers who were currently tripping over both their own feet _and_ his in a so-far-unsuccessful attempt to chase down and capture a force of approximately six rebels, Mitth'raw'nuruodo found himself with an unexpected amount of fellow-feeling for the soldier. So, instead of retiring silently and looking for a more popular place, he said, allowing a good part of his own exasperation to show through into his voice, "Tell me about it."

The glazed expression disappeared from the soldier’s face, and Mitth'raw'nuruodo found himself meeting a very sharp pair of grey eyes that seemed to glow with their own light. The eyes widened slightly when they met his, which was nothing out of the ordinary, but instead of assuming an expression of fear or hostility, which was the usual sequel to that reaction, they took on a wary, assessing look. Mitth'raw'nuruodo revised his estimate again from "hopefully fairly intelligent" to "very intelligent and probably useful, if he is willing to talk".

Whatever assessment he was subjected to, the results were evidently favourable; the soldier gestured to the chair across from him. Mitth'raw'nuruodo sat down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To SW fans, if I have butchered Thrawn's character, I apologise. My knowledge of him is exclusively based on Wookieepedia, fanfiction, and YouTube clips from Rebels. 
> 
> Thauron is the old Quenya pronounciation of Sauron.


	2. Introductions and Idiots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nonsense continues. Maedhros and Thrawn have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don't know what this is, but I'm having fun writing it, so here goes Chapter 2.

Maedhros studied the blue stranger as he took his chair. He looked more like a Man than anything else, if you disregarded the colour of his eyes and skin; he did not have the pointed ears of an Elf, and was far too tall to be a Dwarf. He walked like a soldier, but wore neither armour nor ordinary weapons (Maedhros had not yet identified the function of the odd not-a-dagger that he wore at his belt, but it was in the right place to be a weapon of some sort). 

He had also given no sign of recognition when he saw Maedhros, who was not exactly difficult to identify, and therefore was probably a stranger in these parts. Perhaps he was some kind of Man from the East? Maedhros had heard strange tales of what lay beyond those mountains, though he had never heard of a blue-skinned, red-eyed Man, and would not have believed it if he had. All in all, the stranger was certainly a person worth investigating, the more so as his clothes bore no signs of travel or wear. Maedhros gestured to the pub’s owner, said, "My name is Maedhros Fëanorion," and waited for his new acquaintance’s reaction.

The soldier continued to watch Mitth'raw'nuruodo with intent, though not hostile, eyes. Once he had taken his seat, he made some signal to the bartender and said, "My name is Maedhros Fëanorion." 

It was not a name in any language that Mitth'raw'nuruodo recognised, and the letter that sat beside the wineglass was written neither in Aurebesh nor in Cheunh, but the tone in which this Maedhros Fëanorion had announced himself suggested that he was not used to needing an introduction, increasing the probability that he was a figure of some note in the local community despite the fact that he had given himself no recognisable rank or title. "My apologies," Mitth'raw'nuruodo replied, deciding to be on the safe side of politeness, "I am a stranger here, and have not heard your name before. Mine is Mitth'raw'nuruodo."

Maedhros said, with absolutely perfect intonation, "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mitth'raw'nuruodo," and extended his left arm, the one which still had a hand, across the table.

Mitth'raw'nuruodo blinked, thoroughly startled to hear his full name pronounced correctly, and only just retained the presence of mind to say, "The pleasure is mine," and clasp the offered arm in a warrior’s greeting.

Maedhros leaned back in his chair as the bartender appeared, replenished Maedhros’ glass, and set a second before Mitth'raw'nuruodo. Once the man had retreated back behind the bar, he asked, "What brings you to these parts, then, Mitth'raw'nuruodo? You do not have the look of one who has travelled far, yet they are few indeed in these lands who do not know of me." The last statement was spoken as a simple matter of fact, not a boast — indeed, Maedhros sounded rather rueful. Unless he was a very good actor, he was well-known to the point of wishing himself otherwise.

Mitth'raw'nuruodo considered. He was, in all probability, dealing with an individual whose opinion of him would influence the conditions of his stay on this strange backwater planet to some extent, perhaps to a considerable extent, and unless whatever Force-related or other nonsense had landed him here decided to put him back where he belonged, that stay was shaping up to be a rather lengthy one. On the one hand, the truth was almost too impossible to be believed. On the other, Maedhros had shown signs of being both observant and intelligent, and being caught in a lie would do him no favours. He decided to tell the truth, but not the details. "An accident," he said simply.

"A very curious accident, to leave you alone in a strange land, with no more signs of injury than of your mode of transport." Maedhros’ voice was perfectly neutral, and his face betrayed nothing even to Mitth'raw'nuruodo's intent scrutiny, a rare quality for a Human, but one which made the situation more difficult.

Mitth'raw'nuruodo shrugged eloquently in response, and sipped his wine, which was a good deal better than he would have expected from what appeared to be a backwater planet. Maedhros, unexpectedly, did not press for more information. Instead, he said, "So. You, also, are in charge of idiots."

 _He must want someone to vent his frustrations to,_ Mitth'raw'nuruodo decided. _Or he plans to let me talk and wait for me to reveal more information about myself. Probably both._ "Yes," he said aloud. "My subordinates are entirely incapable of capturing a force comprised of approximately six moderately competent rebels who have been in the same sector for weeks, despite having the intelligence and manpower resources of an entire fleet available to them."

Maedhros raised one eyebrow, and said, "I can do you one better. Two of my brothers are about to single-handedly start a war with one of my most tempermental but vital allies. Since you appear to be a stranger here, perhaps I should add that we are already fighting a war in which our opponent holds an overwhelming superiority in both manpower and materiel. It would be amusing, if we weren’t all going to die because somebody had been out in the field a little too long."

"Been in the field too long?" Mitth'raw'nuruodo was beginning to be genuinely curious.

"That is the only explanation I can think of for why he decided that kidnapping a runaway princess, rather than returning her to her father, was a good idea," Maedhros said. "Of course, given that this is my brother Celegorm, he may not even have thought about whether it was a good idea or not before he did it."

"One of my…associates…has developed the habit of finishing the rebels’ work for them," Mitth'raw'nuruodo offered. "She completely destroyed a valuable military project which they had been attempting to sabotage for months, and in exchange managed to kill precisely one of them."

"How does a single individual, however incompetent, destroy an entire project?"

"She blew it up."

Maedhros’ eyes widened. "I regret asking. Please never introduce her to any of my brothers. They would have half the land in ruins before the week was out."

"As she does not seem to have accompanied me on this little excursion, I believe that I can safely promise that. But you mentioned idiots in the plural."

Maedhros snorted. "Where should I start? My uncle who challenged the Dark Lord Morgoth to single combat because he had lost a battle, and, naturally, lost, leaving a divided kingdom to his son? My other brother, who is intelligent enough that he should be stopping Celegorm from kidnapping anyone, but is instead helping him? My cousin, who, as of last report, had run off with one mortal and ten warriors to challenge the Dark Lord, because the mortal was in love with Celegorm’s princess — evidently the feeling is mutual, as he seems to be the reason she ran away from her father in the first place — and had to steal the Silmarils from Morgoth to win her, and, of course," he continued in a voice dripping with scorn, "challenging Morgoth worked so well for my uncle? Of course, you could just as well accuse me of idiocy, since I swore an oath to regain the Silmarils myself, but at least I have the sense to not walk into the very stronghold of the enemy with ten friends and hope for the best!"

It was Thrawn’s turn to look slightly horrified. "I know neither the Silmarils or Morgoth, but if he is anything like the dark lords I know of, that was suicide." He was internally reflecting, as he spoke, on the implications of Maedhros' casual usage of the word _mortal_ to refer to a group of people with whom he evidently did not class himself

"It was." Maedhros scowled at the letter. "Pure and simple. Left me and his son to clean up his mess, too."

There was really nothing to be said in reply to that, so Mitth'raw'nuruodo returned to his surprisingly good wine and waited in silence. Eventually Maedhros looked up to meet his eyes again, and said placidly, "You may not have lied to me, you know, when I asked where you came from, but you did not tell anything like the whole truth."

Mitth'raw'nuruodo put on a subdued version of what Eli called a "who, me?" face, the one that he had used at the Academy to give the impression that he was an amusingly naive and clueless outsider, and therefore harmless, and said nothing. He had little idea what kind of world he was on or what kind of transport accident would be a feasible excuse for his presence, and he had hoped that Maedhros would reveal something useful over the course of their conversation. With his hopes in that direction disappointed, he fell back on silence, as the least likely to be misinterpreted. 

Maedhros actually laughed. "You know, if I wasn’t the oldest of seven, that face would have a very good chance of working on me. As things are, it was a good attempt. But this is not so large a land that I could have failed to hear of a fleet off the coast of Beleriand. Not to mention, of course, that while it is conceivable, if only just, that a man from some very quiet village in this land — the sort of village that could keep secret an occupant of your appearance — might not have heard of me, it is _not_ conceivable that such a person would not have heard of Morgoth the Dark Enemy of Middle-Earth. And if you were from the kind of backwater that could conceal your existence, you would not be commanding a fleet."

As Maedhros finished speaking, he rose to his feet in a fluid motion that was far too swift for him to be human, and in the same motion reached for his sword. Mitth'raw'nuruodo's hand twitched towards his blaster on instinct, but he checked the motion: in such close quarters, any advantage that a ranged weapon possessed over a blade disappeared, and the most likely outcome of any combat under these circumstances was mutual destruction. Instead, he sat perfectly still as Maedhros’ sword point hovered half an inch from his throat, and waited. The smile had disappeared from Maedhros’ face; the light in his eyes had brightened to the point that Mitth'raw'nuruodo found it difficult to meet them, and a human would probably have found it impossible. When he spoke again, there was a faint hint of a growl in his voice. "So, I will ask you again. Who. Are. You."


	3. The Truth, the Whole Truth, and Nothing But the Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros demands an explanation. A discussion of cosmology ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um...this is still going. I'm still not sure what's happening, but ok. (Basically this entire story exists because I let two very opinionated characters loose in my head, and now they're just doing whatever they want. I have no control over them. Whatsoever.)

Mitth'raw'nuruodo quickly went over his list of options, which was very short. The list of viable ones was even shorter. He had already discounted the possibility of combat, and the best window for an attack had closed. Attempting to lie was unwise; that Mitth'raw'nuruodo did not know enough about this world to do so convincingly had been proven by every word that came out of Maedhros' mouth, and Maedhros was not likely to take well to an unconvincing story. Vague partial truths would only take him so far, and, once more, he simply did not possess enough data to produce a set of half-truths that would lead Maedhros to a suitable conclusion on his own initiative. That left one option: tell the whole truth and trust that Maedhros was intelligent enough to see it for what it was. Slowly and deliberately, he placed his empty hands flat on the table in a universal gesture of peace.

Maedhros had to admit he was beginning to admire this Mitth'raw'nuruodo. Who- and whatever he was, his only reaction to finding himself staring up the blade of Maedhros’ sword was to abandon the (admittedly very good) "who, me?" face and revert to a contemplative expression. Maedhros guessed that he was weighing his options, which might result either in a full confession, a lie, a half-truth of some kind, or an assault. Maedhros braced himself in case his odd guest chose the fourth option, and hoped that it would not be necessary. He had no wish to kill so admirably level-headed a stranger. 

As a result, he was fairly relieved when Mitth'raw'nuruodo pointedly placed his hands on the table, well away from his odd weapon (Maedhros was almost certain it _was_ a weapon, given that Mitth'raw'nuruodo's instinct had been to reach for it when he found himself threatened), met Maedhros’ eyes calmly, and said, "The name I gave you was a true one, but most humans — I make an exception in your case, but then I do not think that you are fully human — cannot pronounce it, and so to them I am Grand Admiral Thrawn of the Galactic Empire. I command the Empire’s Seventh Fleet, currently stationed over the planet Lothal. I was in my office onboard my flagship, the Chimaera, when I discovered an unfamiliar artefact, not belonging to me, on my desk. Over an occupied world, the appearance of such a strange item is likely to indicate an assassination attempt, and so I was preparing to call in my bodyguard to investigate when it…activated, I presume." He punctuated this supposition with a slight shrug of the shoulders, but did not remove his hands from the table. "It produced a kind of swirling black vortex, which pulled me in. Then I found myself here. I went to find the nearest place where I might be able to gather information on my current location, and there I found you. The rest you know. I assume that the box was some kind of Jedi artefact."

Maedhros raised one eyebrow, and carefully did not gape in astonishment at the so-called Grand Admiral Thrawn who had just so casually referred to a "galactic empire," a "planet," a "lothal," and "jedi artefacts" as though Maedhros should know what they were. But the man — no, not man, he clearly did not think of himself as human — did not look or sound mad, and he seemed, to Maedhros’ experienced eyes, to believe that he spoke the truth. Maedhros sheathed his sword, sat back down down, and said in what those who knew him well would hear for what it was, a tone of bafflement, "I believe you, if only because no liar would ever presume to offer me such an impossible tale, or invent so many meaningless words."

Thrawn was, for the second time that day, genuinely shocked. To not know the Galactic Empire or the Jedi was one thing…but to not know what a planet was? He had assumed from the fact that this Maedhros spoke Basic that they were on a planet that had at least traded with occupants of other worlds. Now it seemed likely that he was in an entirely uncharted and extremely primitive system. His chances of returning to the Empire in the near future, had, it seemed, dropped to nil. It was quite likely that he was going to end up as a permanent resident. There was, of course, the possibility that Maedhros was lying, but he was inclined to believe Maedhros for much the same reason that Maedhros had chosen to believe him: it would be, to an inhabitant of the Empire, such an absurd story that any liar would choose something less improbable. 

For a few moments, the two simply stared at each other, each concluding that the other looked as stunned as he felt. In the end, however, Maedhros broke the silence. "I do not think that you are from this world," he said.

"I thought that was clear from the beginning," Thrawn replied.

"No," Maedhros said, looking frustrated, "I mean that you are not from…this…Arda. You must be of Eä, for you are no Ainu, but you are not…" He trailed off upon seeing Thrawn’s uncomprehending expression. "Come outside," he said peremptorily, rising from his seat and striding to the door. 

Thrawn followed him, filing away the nouns "arda," "ea," and "ainu" under "relatively unknown," along with "Morgoth", "silmarils," "Beleriand," and "what species Maedhros belongs to". His list of unknowns had grown longer than he liked. 

Outside the inn, Maedhros gestured to the buildings around them. "This is a part of Arda," he said. "The night sky is a part of Arda. The mountains are a part of Arda. Arda is…all that we know. Until now, I thought it was all Eä — all the world that is.

"You are not of Arda. You are, and you are flesh, so you must be of Eä, but it seems that there are other…Ardar. You must be from one of them."

Thrawn processed all this. _Arda_ , it seemed, meant something analogous to "world," but with a slightly wider scope, perhaps "planet" or "solar system". "Eä" must mean "universe". He noted, for future reference, the fact that whatever language Maedhros spoke seemed to use "r" to indicate the plural on words ending in vowels, which seemed at least to be the majority, if not the rule. His vocabulary was still vanishingly small, however, so the latter note was subject to change. He also noted that Maedhros seemed to expect an answer to his last statement, so he said, "I think it is likely."

"Then, unless your "jedi artefact" sends you back, you have no way of leaving this place."

Thrawn made the mental note that this world did not have spacecraft, and said, "It would seem so."

"And you call this a transportation accident," Maedhros said, with a faint smirk.

Thrawn raised an eyebrow in response. "I was completely ignorant of this world, and of you. I did not wish to reveal more information than was necessary before I had a better estimate of your character and the nature of my surroundings."

Maedhros shook his head at that, and murmured something under his breath in his own language. Thrawn did not know enough to even attempt a translation yet, but he caught the name "Curufin" and a jumble of words that sounded very much like Basic "can" and "yes" run together, "as," and "omen," but in all probability did not mean the same things.

Then he seemed to come back to himself, and said, "As you have nowhere to go, I would recommend that you come with me. Your face is not likely to inspire trust in this land. You are fortunate that I heard your voice before I saw it, or I might have taken you for a servant of the Enemy. Others may not be so cautious."

Maedhros had been trustworthy enough so far, and he was Thrawn’s only contact on this planet at the moment. Besides, Thrawn had not missed the way that the bartender had shrunk away from him in fear, and while the bartender alone was no danger, even Thrawn could not stand alone against a terrified mob of villagers. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"My fortress of Himring," Maedhros replied. "Come."

Of all the ways his evening might have ended, Maedhros had not expected this one. Mitth'raw'nuruodo, or Thrawn, having been…deposited…in this village without anything except his clothes and weapon, had no horse. Maedhros privately suspected from his reaction to the stables that he had never ridden one before. And so, he was riding double with a…man?…from another world, on the road back to Himring. _At least I have something to distract me from Celegorm’s latest mess,_ he thought wryly.

Thrawn was not expecting riding beasts to be the only mode of transport open to him, though he was not exactly surprised. Still, he supposed, it was a fitting enough ending to what had unquestionably been one of the strangest days of his life. Maedhros rode without either bridle or saddle, he noted, and hoped that the fortress of Himring had good laundry facilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thrawn is not quite correct that Arda means "solar system," although it’s a very understandable assumption given the information he’s working from. There’s no direct English/Basic equivalent, which is a good part of his problem, but it more or less means "the universe as far as we can perceive it," so Maedhros is actually suggesting something along the lines of the multiverse theory. He’s not going to be able to get that idea across without suggesting multiple Eär, though, which from his perspective would be utterly absurd because Eä is the sum of everything that is, regardless of which universe it’s in. Ah, the joys of language barriers.
> 
> Speaking of language barriers, I have arbitrarily decided that either Maedhros is speaking Westron and Westron equals Basic, or there's some kind of inter-universal translation software rendering Sindarin comprehensible to Thrawn. Whatever the case, Quenya was evidently not included in the deal.
> 
>  _As Curufin rucanyës omentiëlda,_ which is what Maedhros actually said, means _I fear your meeting with Curufin_ , in what is at least reasonably correct Quenya.
> 
> If anyone out there is artistically inclined and has the time, I would _love_ to see a picture of Thrawn and Maedhros riding double like the Knights Templar of old, who were supposedly so poor that they had to share horses. I would draw it myself, but trust me, you don't want to see the results of me trying to do that.


	4. Battle on the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have some action, because with these two guys in the same place there's no way that they're not going to get into trouble almost immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This really should be subtitled either "Maedhros & Thrawn's Excellent Adventure" or "Thrawn and the No Good, Very Bad, Horrible Day".
> 
> Also, may the 4th be with you!

Thrawn reflected that "horses" were not quite as easy to stay on as speederbikes. Riding animals had never been a skill he had seen as necessary to acquire; neither the Chiss nor the Empire used such primitive modes of transportation, and during his exile he had never needed to stray far enough from his camp to justify the labour of taming a wild animal to ride, even had the local species been amenable to the idea. As a result, he was being jolted about rather uncomfortably, even though Maedhros was not riding terribly fast. He refused to hold on to the man in front of him, however. His dignity had suffered enough from the fact that Maedhros had, in the end, been forced to haul him up onto the horse’s back like a sack of potatoes when all his efforts at mounting by himself had ended either in a complete lack of progress or in the horse moving away from him at the crucial second.

An especially hard jolt caught him as they were rounding a bend and threw him off balance. He threw his weight the opposite way in an attempt to right himself, but overcompensated and found himself sliding down the horse’s side. As he was falling, something whizzed by his head out of the darkness, and then there was a thud that sounded as though it had hit something solid. A moment later, there was another thud, as Thrawn himself hit something solid, namely the ground. Maedhros drew his horse to a halt, but he was not looking at Thrawn. He was looking into the deep darkness under the trees off to the right of the road, where the moonlight did not reach. "What was that?" Thrawn asked.

"An arrow," Maedhros said grimly, still staring into the trees. _Arrows. They use_ arrows. _Warrior’s Fortune be with me._ Thrawn had no time to think further about the matter, however. The first arrow was followed by several more, and Thrawn rolled into the ditch beside the road as they passed overhead, regretting, not for the first time, that he was wearing a perfectly white uniform. On the positive side, he supposed, the dust and dirt that he was rapidly picking up might serve to camouflage him from the archers. He drew his blaster, and saw out of the corner of his eye that Maedhros, who had not dismounted, had drawn his sword. None too soon: creatures that Thrawn had never seen before were racing out of the trees towards them, wielding crude swords and short, thick recurve bows. Without rising from his half-prone position in the ditch, which afforded him some cover, he took aim at the nearest archer, hoping that Maedhros could deal with the swordsmen.

Maedhros was about to put himself between the effectively unarmed Thrawn and the oncoming orcs when a bolt of red light shot past him, and the nearest orc archer fell. A quick glance down and to his right revealed that Thrawn was evidently responsible, as he had drawn his odd weapon and was aiming it (or that was what it looked like) at the next archer. Maedhros had done this before many times, usually with Celegorm or one of the Ambarussar. His job was to keep the swordsmen from getting to the…archer. Thrawn’s job was to keep Maedhros from being shot by the orc-archers. 

Maedhros’ first swing clove an orc’s head down to the shoulders, even as Alamahtar’s hooves met the chest of another and sent it flying backwards, weaponless and half-crushed. More bolts of red clove through the darkness, and each one found a target. Thrawn was doing his job well.

The part of Thrawn’s mind that was not focussed on the battle was quietly astonished, both at the way that Maedhros and his horse seemed to be working together — for every enemy Maedhros’ sword struck down, the creature’s hooves crushed another — and at the fact that the most advanced technology available seemed to be so primitive that, by Imperial standards, it would be considered a joke. Watching Maedhros and his horse in their deadly dance against whatever it was that had come out of the darkness, however, was anything but funny. The fact that the archers were coming closer and closer despite Thrawn’s best efforts with the blaster was even less so.

When he shot his next target just before it reached point-blank range, Thrawn decided it was time to change tactics. The swords wielded by their foes were crude but effective, so he holstered his blaster and picked up the short, crooked blade belonging to the thing he had just killed. It was roughly forged, poorly balanced, and heavy, and he would have a sore wrist in the morning, but it was infinitely better than the alternative. As his nearest foe charged him, he stepped straight into its attack, seized its right wrist with his free left hand, and neatly plunged his short sword into the gap between helmet and breastplate. The creature fell, choking, and Thrawn stepped forward again to parry a reckless downward blow aimed at his head. He caught his opponent’s sword neatly on the strong part of his own blade, deflecting it downwards, then flicked his wrist in a swift circular motion that sent the full momentum of his front-heavy short sword into his opponent’s helmet. It fell with a thud.

When the red bolts stopped firing, Maedhros turned towards Thrawn again, worried that an orc had gotten past his guard and a rescue was in order. He instead saw Thrawn standing over a pair of orc corpses, with an orc’s short-sword in his hands. Whether his odd weapon had run out of light or the orcs had simply gotten too close, Maedhros could be of more use on the ground now that he was no longer playing defence for a sniper. He vaulted off of Alamahtar’s back to stand beside Thrawn.

With the two of them working together, the orcs were little more than a nuisance. The chief danger, in fact, came from the fact that Maedhros and Thrawn fought very differently, and neither was used to dealing with the other. Thrawn preferred dodging to parrying, which was an excellent strategy, with the added benefit that both Maedhros and Thrawn found it deeply satisfying to watch orcs running into each other because they had been expecting Thrawn to be somewhere he was not, but meant he was not always where Maedhros expected him to be either. Maedhros had come closer than he would have liked to admit to tripping over his swift-footed companion, and Thrawn had come closer than _he_ would have liked to admit to stepping into Maedhros’ blade. Despite this, the orcs were dispatched before long without either of them having suffered worse than a few scratches. 

Once Maedhros was evidently satisfied that that there were no more of whatever had attacked them, he wiped his blade clean on his cloak, and turned to Thrawn. "Well fought," he said, with a note of surprise in his voice. 

"Likewise," Thrawn said, respectfully but wearily. The headache that he had been repressing by sheer force of will since his little excursion into the Force or whatever that had been was beginning to be difficult to ignore, and his left arm had taken a long cut which was beginning to sting now that he had stopped moving. "What were those?"

"Orcs," Maedhros said grimly. Then, as though recalling that Thrawn would not know what that meant, "Twisted perversions that were once elves. Morgoth took them, tortured them…now they know nothing but hatred for all the world, and fear of him."

Thrawn, examining their fallen foes more closely by the light of the moon, was uncomfortably reminded of the few descriptions of the Far Outsiders that he had heard from such survivors of their attacks as he had been able to find. He was distracted from his scrutiny, however, by a stray thought. "Elves?" he asked.

"My people," Maedhros explained briefly. "Are you wounded?"

"Not seriously," Thrawn replied, looking more closely at his stinging arm and seeing that the cut, though ragged, was not terribly deep. 

Maedhros stepped closer to him and, after a brief inspection, seemed to concur. "Come," he said. "I do not think that we will be attacked again, but we should not linger here."

Mounting the horse was somewhat easier this time around, though he still needed Maedhros’ help. This time he did not scruple to hold on, which was fortunate, as Maedhros promptly urged his horse to a pace considerably more rapid than before.

The rest of the journey passed uneventfully enough. Another half-hour’s ride brought them to a great stone castle set on a hill, which Thrawn guessed was the fortress of Himring. Maedhros exchanged words with the guards in his own language, perhaps a passphrase of some kind, the gate was opened, and they rode in. Even to Thrawn’s eyes, it was truly dark now, but he gazed around in curiosity nevertheless. What little he could see of the housing that lay within the fortress’ walls spoke of a curious mixture of practicality and elegance. The buildings were mostly stone, built with thick walls and strong doors as though to withstand an assault or a fire, but with smooth lines, rounded corners, and arched doorways which suggested the hand of an artistic and well-trained architect. Several streets, laid out along what seemed to be the shape of a wheel, led them to a second wall where Maedhros dismounted and turned his horse over to an attendant, with the comment, "Look after Alamahtar well tonight. He has earned his keep!"

The groom, who was gazing curiously at Thrawn, asked, "Trouble, my lord? We did not expect you back until tomorrow."

"Only a little, back on the road, and more than compensated for by a new friend," Maedhros replied, setting his hand pointedly on Thrawn’s shoulder.

The groom nodded respectfully to Thrawn, and asked, "Shall I send a healer, then?" with a gesture towards Thrawn’s bloodstained sleeve.

Thrawn found that he seemed to be expected to answer this question, and replied carefully, "That should not be necessary, but some bandages and salve would be most welcome."

"Send some suitable clothes as well, and hot water, for both of us," Maedhros added. "He will have the room across from mine." Then, turning to Thrawn, he said, "Forgive me for arranging your affairs for you, but it grows late and I, for one, would sleep soon. Tomorrow, if you wish, we can discuss arrangements for the rest of your stay here."

Thrawn bowed slightly and followed Maedhros through the torchlit passageways until they reached a pair of elaborately carved wooden doors. Maedhros opened one, revealing an elaborately furnished room hung with tapestries. There was firewood by the grate, and Maedhros lit a fire, waving off Thrawn’s offers of assistance with a mild, "I am the host, and it is my duty to see to my guest’s comfort."

When the hot water arrived, Maedhros retreated to his own rooms to wash up, but he returned to offer his assistance with the bandages, and stayed, despite his expressed intention of going to sleep, to talk. Thrawn, though tired, was also curious, and accepted both the help and the conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus: this is a thing that occurred to me the other day.
> 
> Thrawn: Arihnda, let me see what you have.  
> Pryce: An explosion!  
> Thrawn, running: NO!
> 
> Maedhros: Celegorm, let me see what you have.  
> Celegorm: Lúthien!  
> Maedhros, running: NO!
> 
> If you want to get a picture of what I based Thrawn’s fighting style on, go to YouTube and find the scene from _Rebels_ where he faces off against a pair of assassin droids. Even if you don’t like the show, it’s a pretty cool scene.
> 
> Sorry for the abrupt end, but this was getting longer and longer and I had to put a chapter break in somewhere.


	5. The Art of Sparring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title says it all. Thrawn and Maedhros had to spar sometime. It was inevitable. Or so they told me. Anyway, here you go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late update, sorry. RL has been whacking me on the head with urgent things to do.

In the morning, Thrawn discovered that his torn and stained uniform had disappeared, though his boots and blaster had not, and new clothes had been laid out for him just inside the door of his suite. They consisted of a tunic and breeches and a long cloak, all in shades of grey and brown. Shortly after he had woken and dressed, Maedhros appeared to invite him to breakfast. They continued their brief conversation of the previous night over a repast of cold meat and fresh fruit, both of varieties Thrawn had not seen before.

"I did not wish to ask you last night," Maedhros said, "but by what art do you command fire and light?"

Thrawn blinked, a little startled by the phrasing, though he had been expecting the question since he first fired his blaster.

"The only art, as you put it, is in firing well, the same as it would be with any ranged weapon."

Maedhros looked baffled. Thrawn noted that he was no longer attempting to make his face unreadable. "But how does your weapon spit bolts of light if there is no art in it?"

There was really no way to answer that except to go into detail about the physics of blasters, which Thrawn suspected would go right over Maedhros’ head, but he supposed it was better to try than not.

From the look on his guest’s face, Maedhros suspected that Thrawn did not expect him to understand much of anything about the concepts he was explaining. It was true that some of the words — most notably "tibanna" and "electricity" — were unfamiliar, but the concepts on a broader scale were both comprehensible and fascinating. "So I was right to say that you wield fire," he said, when Thrawn had finished. "I was even right to say that there was art in it, though the power behind it is not of a kind I know. Your 'blaster' heats air to the heat of flame, and then propels it towards your enemy. May I see?" 

Thrawn removed the parts he had identified as the gas cartridge and power pack, setting them carefully on the table. Evidently he did not quite trust Maedhros not to shoot one of them, but then Maedhros would probably have been slow to trust Thrawn with a blade if he had not seen him fight with one. Careful to keep the "barrel" pointed away from his face, he examined the blaster with considerable interest before aiming it experimentally at an unoccupied chair, wondering meanwhile whether the best course of action would be to call Curufin in to take a look at it as soon as possible and see if he could replicate it, or to immediately obtain Thrawn’s solemn promise never under any circumstances to allow Curufin to know of its existence.

"A curious weapon," he concluded, setting it back on the table, careful to point the barrel away from both of them and setting aside the question of Curufin for another day — at present he was not going to give Curufin any new technology even if he did think it wise, in the long run. His little brother was in very deep trouble as soon as Maedhros got hold of him. He continued, "But one which, I take it, will only be useful to you for a limited time if you cannot get new 'power packs'." 

"That is correct."

"Then, as you do not know how long you will be here, I shall see to it that you receive a proper weapon as soon as you have eaten."

Breakfast was soon over — if Maedhros was any judge of his enigmatic guest, the man/not-man (Maedhros was still not quite sure what to call him, and had not asked yet lest it be taken amiss) was looking forward to visiting the armoury. 

Himring’s armoury was a fascinating place, and Thrawn could gladly have spent weeks in it. Armour as art was not something he saw often, for most of what was worn in the Empire was mass-produced, and bore no trace of the wearer’s personality, though it might perhaps reveal something about the designer. Here, however, each individual piece had been crafted by hand, many with immense care both for form and function. Most, he suspected, were the product of collaboration between the smith and the original wearer. The pieces appeared to be organised by size and function rather than by date, but it appeared that multiple centuries of craftsmanship were represented in this room. There were three main styles that he could see. The first more or less resembled the pauldrons and vambraces Maedhros was wearing, the product of a craft which had been refined over many lifetimes until every line was both beautiful and functional, but had not been radically altered by the introduction of new technology. The second also bore the marks of an art brought to perfection over time, but was heavier, blockier in style, and seemed to be made with less care for weight. The last was what Thrawn would have expected from a world on this technological level: crafted, for the most part, by competent but not exemplary hands, and designed for simplicity and functionality above all else. He related his observations to Maedhros, who looked thoroughly impressed.

"You see with a keen eye," he said. "The armour I wear was forged by my people. We have indeed had many lifetimes of Men to refine our crafts, and our smiths rejoice in the deadly beauty of weapons and armour as they once rejoiced in the beauty of the peaceful arts." Here he looked sorrowful for a moment. "The second style you have noted was forged by the Dwarves. Though made for Elves, it still bears the marks of their craftsmanship. They are a squat, strong people, lovers of stone and delving, and also of gold and gems. The last is the armour of Men, the youngest of the Children of Illuvatar, whose lives are brief even compared to the Dwarves and who place less value upon beauty than upon function. You may take your choice of armour and of weapon."

"That is the second time that you have spoken of mortals as though you were not one," Thrawn said, stepping deeper into the armoury, "but I have never met a people who did not die in the end."

"You have met one now," Maedhros said. "Elves are bound to the world until it ends. Even if we perish in battle, our spirits do not leave it, but go to the Halls of Mandos, where they wait, either for the true end or for their rehousing."

"Rehousing?"

"Those who wish it, if Mandos allows it, may return to new bodies and take up life in the world again. Though when I die, I doubt that I shall receive that courtesy."

Thrawn was silent, for though such a speech raised many questions, such questions were difficult to express courteously. He returned to his inspection of the armour and weapons instead. After testing the weight of some of the Dwarvish pieces, he decided that he preferred the lighter Elvish make. In the end, he settled on light armour: pauldrons, vambraces and greaves of black leather, splinted with blued steel, with a steel helm to match. There was no matching sword, so he selected one that he could wield either one or two-handed, which had a slightly leaf-shaped blade and a simple leather-wrapped grip. Maedhros inspected his choices with an approving eye, and then asked, "Do you wish to learn the balance of your new weapon?"

It had been some time since Thrawn had met an organic being who could match him in a spar. He agreed immediately.

By the time the two of them reached the training fields, they had picked up rather a large number of onlookers, ranging from small human children who stared at Thrawn with uncomplicated curiosity — which he found rather refreshing — to a contingent of Elves who moved like an off-duty military unit and who might be there either to watch the spar or to protect Maedhros from his unusual guest if things got out of hand. 

Maedhros did not immediately begin the bout, instead running through a series of warm-ups on his side of the field. Thrawn accepted the opportunity to learn the balance of his new sword — which proved to be excellent — and accustom himself to moving in his armour. When he was ready, he turned to Maedhros and brought his sword up in the customary salute, which the elf returned, before dropping into a ready position and waiting.

He had just settled in for a waiting game when Maedhros _moved_ , crossing half the field before Thrawn even had a chance to react. _First observation_ , Thrawn thought wryly. _This one is_ fast.

Maedhros had seen first-hand that his guest had _some skill with a blade_ the previous night, but he was not certain how much. After all, orcs were more a test of courage than of skill.

He decided to dispense with the waiting game as a courtesy to his guest, and sprang as soon as he was properly ready. Thrawn’s eyes widened briefly in surprise before he braced himself for impact. Then, at the last possible moment, he slipped to the left — Maedhros’ off-side — in an eel-like motion and struck for Maedhros’ briefly exposed back. His sword, Maedhros noted, was angled a little oddly, as though he subconsciously expected it to extend past his body. _Staff-trained,_ Maedhros thought, twisting in midair to bring his sword around underneath Thrawn’s.

As Maedhros shifted his body-weight in midair to move himself away from Thrawn’s strike, Thrawn allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction that he had waited so long to move. Had he dodged sooner, Maedhros would have had enough time to mount a counter-attack rather than simply evading him. Then, as the elf brought his blade up in a parry that was obviously intended to create its own opening, he turned his mind back to the fight, disengaging his sword before it could be forced far enough up to leave him vulnerable and jabbing quickly for Maedhros’ side. Maedhros’ parry left the two standing side-by-side, sword-arm locked against sword-arm, for a split second. Thrawn locked his arm around Maedhros’, took a step back, and twisted, intending to throw his remarkably tall opponent over his shoulder. 

Maedhros distinctly remembered the first time he had sparred Celegorm after the latter had learned throws and joint locks. His little brother had been surprisingly effective until Maedhros had realised that he still outweighed Celegorm by a decent margin and could simply sit down whenever he tried a throw. Thrawn was too well balanced for him to just sit down on the ground and pull him over, but he could use a variant of the same technique. He shifted into a crouch, dropped his sword, and then launched himself forward into a roll.

Thrawn had a split-second warning, which was more intuition than anything else, that his throw was not going to work well. Then his feet left the ground. The warning was just enough for him to drop his sword and twist to avoid catching Maedhros’ full weight in his stomach, but not enough to save him from landing in an awkward sprawl. His dignity was soon appeased, however, by the discovery that Maedhros, thrown off-balance by the unexpected evasion, had suffered the same fate.

They disentangled themselves carefully, dusted themselves off, and saluted again. Thrawn was briefly aware that their spectators were watching intently before he decided that this time, he would strike first.

Then neither of them had time to think. There was only the swift dance of flickering swords, the instinctive knowledge of where to step and where to parry, and the jarring impact of blade on blade or armour. They were a well-matched pair — both were strong, and quick on their feet — but Maedhros was both the taller and the more skilled of the two, and slowly Thrawn felt himself forced onto the defensive, something which had not happened for years. Maedhros, feeling his advantage, pressed it with a series of brutally hard blows from all directions. Thrawn had no chance to take back the offensive before Maedhros came in for what looked to be yet another hammering blow at his defences, then at the last moment changed the attack from a simple strike to a complicated flick of his wrist. Thrawn’s sword went spinning out of his hand. For the second time in as many days, he found himself staring down Maedhros’ blade. He raised his hands in surrender.

Maedhros sheathed his sword with a grin, and offered Thrawn his hand. "Well fought," he said. 

Thrawn grasped the hand and returned the smile. "It has been some time since I faced an opponent who could best me," he replied. 

"You mortals do count time strangely," said a teasing voice from the sidelines. "By my count, it has not even been a minute yet."

"Oh, come off it, Beraith," said a much rougher voice. "As though you could have stood against Lord Maedhros for half as long."

Out of the midst of the military unit that had been shadowing Maedhros since they left the fortress walls stepped an individual who was definitely full-human. He was shorter and broader than the elves around him, and clad in simpler clothes, but he moved with the confidence of a trained fighter. He held out his hand cheerfully to Thrawn, not displaying any undue surprise at the Chiss’ unusual appearance. He had, after all, had plenty of time to stare during the walk over, and Thrawn guessed that Maedhros’ matter-of-fact acceptance of his presence had gone a fair way towards making him acceptable, at least to the residents of Himring. "Name’s Amlach," the man said. "What do you say we show our high-and-mighty friend how mortals really fight?"

Thrawn picked up his sword with his left hand and grasped Amlach’s hand with his right. "Mine is Mitth'raw'nuruodo," he replied, "but I think it would be easier for you to call me Thrawn."

Amlach looked a little appalled when Thrawn pronounced his full name, and relieved at the permission to use a shorter one. "If you don’t mind," he said, "I think I will."

"Are you two really challenging all comers, Amlach?" called the Elf who seemed to be named Beraith. 

Amlach turned to Thrawn, and asked, "Are we?"

Thrawn favoured Amlach with one of his rare smiles — a rather predatory one by human standards, if the man’s reaction was anything to go by — and replied, "Why not?"

Beraith did not last long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beraith is an archer more than a swordsman (hence his swift defeat), and although he comes off as a bit caustic in this scene, he actually kind of likes Amlach. It’s just that he’s a sniper and Amlach is a close-combat man, and they tease each other relentlessly. Thrawn got caught in the crossfire, but has handled it remarkably well and is probably about to be adopted as a brother-in-arms by Himring’s garrison.
> 
> Beraith is an OC of mine, but Amlach is a canon character, and is rather unusual in that he’s a Man who swore allegiance to Maedhros, the only one mentioned to have done so.


	6. Back to the Chimaera

Himring’s garrison was always up for a spar, as Maedhros knew well, though a fair portion of his men were a little shy of sparring _him_. He drew back a little from the ring, sat down on the ground, and proceeded to watch the show. Beraith and Derufin, though two of his better archers, were less accomplished in close-quarters combat, and against Amlach, whom everyone forgot was much stronger than he looked, and Thrawn, who had perfected the art of simply not being where he had been when you aimed your blow, they did not last terribly long. The men of the second watch had adapted quite well to Amlach’s presence, he reflected, and even Beraith’s taunts were more or less good-natured now. The captain of the watch had, after a little initial skepticism about Amlach’s abilities in combat, all but adopted the young Man. He seemed in a fair way to do the same thing with Thrawn now.

Then Amlach strode over and challenged Maedhros to a bout, evidently feeling daring. A "bout" proved to be less a sparring match than a place in what was rapidly becoming a free-for-all. Maedhros changed his sharp sword for a training sword before he entered the chaos.

It was some time later, after everyone was rather tired and rather bruised, that he found Thrawn again. Other than the occasional flash of blue amidst the chaos, he had seen nothing of his guest since the beginning of the free-for-all. Now that things had died down, however, Amlach’s youngest daughter was interrogating her father’s new friend with considerable interest. Thrawn was standing up quite well to the non-stop stream of questions, but he looked both tired and rather stunned (a fairly ordinary reaction to that young woman’s remarkable capacity for rapid speech), so Maedhros stepped in to the rescue. "Now that you have met some of Himring’s folk, my friend, I am sure you have more questions for me," he said.

Thrawn nodded, bade the girl a polite farewell, and followed Maedhros back into the fortress and up to his office. Before there was time for any other conversation, however, Maedhros noticed a small box perched precariously atop a stack of parchments. Picking it up to examine it more closely, he turned to Thrawn, and said curiously, "I did not leave this here."

As Maedhros closed his fingers around the box, Thrawn lunged forward with an exclamation of, "Don’t touch tha—" but he was too late. The world tilted, twisted, and… _changed_.

Thrawn blinked. He was standing in a viewing room on the Chimaera, with a possibly-Jedi-related box sitting innocently on a table beside him. Then, from behind him, he heard a voice with a familiar lilting accent say, "Oh, Valar help us. Did you experience such pain on your first passage?"

He turned and met the gleaming grey eyes of Maedhros Fëanorion, who, still in half-armour and girt with a long sword, looked far more out of place on the Chimaera than Thrawn had looked in Himring. For that matter, in his current clothes, Thrawn looked very much out of place on his own flagship. "Yes," he said, then very deliberately walked around behind the table, sat down in a chair, and stared fixedly and balefully at the box. 

Maedhros looked around him curiously, despite the throbbing ache which had taken up residence in the back of his head. No art of the Dwarves could or would have created what he saw around him. He was standing in a room completely made of what looked like grey-painted, tempered steel: an unlovely room, but one which would be proof against nearly any attack. He shook his head in silent wonder at the unartistic ingenuity of Men, for this was unquestionably the work of the Younger Children, or whatever analogue they possessed in Thrawn’s _arda_. Then he saw that one wall of the room was not steel at all, but what seemed to be perfectly clear glass, of a quality which he had not seen since he left Tirion’s workshops. Through the glass shone the stars of Varda, with a brilliance which he had never seen in them before. Stepping warily up to the glass, he looked down to see what manner of land he was in, and saw…nothing. Beneath his feet, the stars stretched on into infinity just as they did before his face. With a shock, he understood. "We are in the heavens," he said, knowing that his awe must be plain in his voice.

"Yes," Thrawn replied, in a tone that made it clear that his primary concern was still with the world-walking box which lay on the table, and possibly also with his own headache. "On board the Chimaera," he added after a moment.

Maedhros paused for a long moment. His headache was growing worse, and he was yet to comprehend exactly how it was possible that they were in the heavens, on board something that Thrawn had called a ship, which was clearly not what Maedhros thought of as a ship, and yet neither Maiar nor dead. "Is there wine here?"

"Follow me," Thrawn replied, rising to his feet and beckoning Maedhros after him. "I think this calls for something stronger."

Thrawn locked the door of the viewing room after he and Maedhros were out of it. He had no intention of touching the infernal box, and the last thing he needed was an inquisitive off-duty stormtrooper getting his hands on the thing.

"Be careful," he said, turning to Maedhros. "Your appearance here will cause quite a stir, I think. It would be better if we were not seen yet."

Maedhros nodded silently, and followed on Thrawn’s heels as he strode swiftly down the passages towards his office. What followed was, Thrawn reflected, like a scene from a farce: a Lord of the Noldor and a Grand Admiral of the Imperial Navy sneaking through the corridors of an Imperial Star Destroyer like a pair of human teenagers trying to get out of their house without waking their parents. Once, Thrawn dragged Maedhros into a supply closet just before a squad of Stormtroopers rounded the corner into their hallway, and once Maedhros flattened Thrawn behind a blast door just in time to get out of the way of a lieutenant who wandered by with his nose inches from his datapad, but otherwise they made it to Thrawn’s office without incident. 

From the lack of personnel in the hallways, Thrawn concluded that he had been returned to the Chimaera during the night cycle, which was good inasmuch as it meant they had not been spotted, and very bad in that it meant that he would have to explain his temporary disappearance to his bridge crew at least, if no one else. 

Thrawn palmed the door to his quarters open with some relief, only to be greeted by a very soft squeak from behind his desk, the sort of noise that might be made by a particularly shy mouse. Investigating, he discovered an ensign, scanning equipment in hand, who had evidently been examining his rooms for any evidence that might explain his disappearance, and was now frozen in terror, staring at Thrawn and Maedhros.

Maedhros felt rather like an elfling sneaking through Tirion with Findekano again as he followed Thrawn through the bare, utilitarian steel corridors of what evidently passed for a ship in this world. _Ships that travel the heavens_ , he thought in wonderment, and then, as his ears caught a footstep, he sprang into a conveniently shadowed nook of the hallway, flattening Thrawn against the wall. Moments later, a Man wandered by, wearing clothes of much the same kind that Thrawn had had when he appeared in Beleriand, though of a different colour, intent upon a strange device. Once he was out of sight, their silent journey resumed. It ended when Thrawn opened a door and they stepped into what was evidently his living quarters. Someone behind the table made a faint, startled noise.

Thrawn was in no humour to explain what had just happened, so he called upon his most icy and impassive manner, and asked coolly, "Ensign, what is your name?"

"Ensign Gail, sir." The last word almost came out as a squeak, and was nearly rendered inaudible by Maedhros having a rather violent fit of coughing. Ensign Gail, it seemed, was new to the ship, hardly out of boyhood, and rather frightened of his commanding officer. Under any other circumstances, Thrawn would have taken the time to ease his fears a little, but right now his head was throbbing and he was wearing armour and Maedhros was standing in his quarters and the infernal box was still sitting in a locked viewing room. "That will be all, Gail," he said, still in his calmest and most dangerous voice. "You will speak of this to no one," he added. "I will announce my return when I see fit."

"Yes, sir." With that, the ensign bolted out the door at a rather impressive speed.

Maedhros rather pitied the terrified young ensign — and he looked to be young even by mortal standards — who had been performing some complicated operation behind Thrawn’s desk when their arrival froze him in terror, but that did not prevent him from barking out a startled laugh when the poor child introduced himself as "Ensign Fish". He quickly transformed the laughter into a fit of coughing, however, and the child looked too frightened to have noticed in any case.

Once Ensign Fish had taken his leave (at a remarkably high speed), Thrawn strode purposefully over to a cabinet, retrieved a bottle and two glasses, and poured a generous measure into each glass. He handed one to Maedhros, who sniffed it appreciatively. It was evidently a liquor of some kind, and those were scarce in Beleriand, unless one counted the rather curious concoctions that Men were known to make from potatoes. (Maedhros did not.)

"Corellian brandy," Thrawn explained, seeing his look of interest. "I know that type of cough," he added.

Maedhros, after a measured sip of the brandy, which was as good as it smelled, asked mildly, "Did I mishear, or did that ensign truly say that his name was 'fish'?"

Thrawn choked on his drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain Pellaeon will always remember the day that he found his missing Grand Admiral drinking Corellian brandy in his quarters at oh-three-hundred hours (Pellaeon found the terrified Ensign Gail refusing to explain why he had left Thrawn’s quarters half-scanned and put two and two together), wearing a sword and half-armour the origin of which which he absolutely refused to explain, with a drinking buddy that nobody had ever seen before and whom nobody had seen board the ship. He will remember it almost as much as he will remember the mayhem that the two unleashed on the Rebellion and Empire alike as soon as their headaches had worn off.
> 
> Yes, Maedhros will eventually make it back to Middle-Earth. He might just derail the entire plot of Star Wars first, though. (My personal suspicion is that between Maedhros and Thrawn, the Empire is going to wind up reformed into a government strong enough to withstand the Yuuzhan Vong and just enough to satisfy the Rebellion, but that is not a story I’m going to take the time to write at the moment. Maybe I’ll come back to it someday. If someone else wants to write it, I’ll be all ears!)
> 
> Ensign Gail (whose name really does mean "fish" in Sindarin) will never know why his CO smirks, very faintly, whenever he sees him. He’s slightly terrified, because everyone says that Thrawn never does anything for no reason, so WHY does Thrawn do that? WHAT DID HE DO?


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bonus drabble-and-a-half, featuring Ezra Bridger, Thrawn, Maedhros, and a speederbike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This happened because Joseph_B_Bergstrom mentioned that Maedhros would probably have just as much trouble with a speederbike as Thrawn had with a horse. There wasn't a place for it in the main story, but it wanted to be written, so here it is.

Ezra Bridger threw himself flat as a speederbike hurtled towards him at a frankly suicidal speed. The only things he could see about the rider were that his hair was bright red and he only had one hand on the controls, which at that speed was asking for a crash unless you were a Jedi. _Is that idiot_ trying _to get himself killed?_ he thought, as the bike veered sharply left, narrowly missing a building. Ezra was just picking himself up off the ground when a second bike knocked him flat again, this one bearing a blue-and-white silhouette that he would recognise anywhere. _Thrawn? What is he doing here?_ he thought in a panic, before he heard the admiral’s distinctive voice float back towards him in a shout of, "The brakes are the pedal on your left! Use them!"

_Huh?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I leave it to the reader’s imagination whether Maedhros is an absolute terror around speederbikes because he hasn’t found the brakes yet or because he’s enjoying himself a little too much. (My private hypothesis is that it’s a bit of both.) Capt. Pellaeon is facepalming in the background somewhere and praying that nothing explodes.
> 
> Also, this is now the first work of a series, because my brain presented me with a one-shot while I was in the car a few days ago. Stay tuned!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Introductions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24363991) by [Joseph_B_Bergstrom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joseph_B_Bergstrom/pseuds/Joseph_B_Bergstrom)




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